Anything
by ArgentNoelle
Summary: Emperor Joker AU. (Joker has gained godlike powers over the whole universe) - There is only so much the human mind can take. What if Bruce had managed to get out of his eternal torment at the Joker's hands, before the start of the comic? What then? [oneshot]


It needs to end. Whatever reason Bruce had had, in the beginning, for staying silent, for trying to fight—or had he had a reason? It is no longer relevant. With the power the Joker has gained, power to warp reality itself, his only existence has narrowed down to the agony of waiting, of being torn apart, piece by piece, by the dark beaks and claws, and then the suffocating press of earth. Even death, here, is not true death. And he will spend eternity like this, and he will go mad—if he hasn't already. There are some torments that are too much for the human mind to bear, and this truly _endless_ cycle of intolerable pain—with no hope of rescue—is one of them.

 _What will you gain from this?_ Bruce shouts, from under the earth, from the torn ligaments of his throat, and when his mouth has been eaten away and his bones lie scattered he shouts from the polished vibrant edges. And he doesn't stop. Do you think you can forget me? Are you really happy just to see me killed again and again, when you have a universe of options before you? Somehow, he finds the urge to scoff, sends it hurtling into the black backdrop of the Joker's world. " _You were more creative than this when you were human._ "

If he has only one ability, still, he will use that.

Eventually, he realizes the birds have not come. His screams have ended, and the cartoonish clarity of the acid-bright world comes into focus. The Joker is standing in front of him. He's wearing purple robes, trimmed with fur, an ornate crown on his head. It's ridiculous, but Bruce can feel the power in that form, the way everything around them stands silent and waits.

"Hello there Batsy," Joker says, with deceptive mildness. "You _called_?"

His mouth opens, and he pokes his tongue, warily, at his open lips, wincing at the anticipation of something mangled and bloody. It doesn't come.

"Joker?" Somehow, it comes out a question. Now that the pain has ended, now that Joker is _here,_ he doesn't know what he wants, doesn't know what to do. All Bruce can feel is fear, fear that the Joker will become bored of him, send him back to the agony of torture again. And he could, but he hasn't, not yet.

Something changes in the Joker's expression—something more like recognition than pity. The chains around his arms and legs disappear, and he is sitting in the grass at Joker's feet. Sweat dries cold on his skin; he gazes up at stars skewed like paint spatters across the impossible sky, and wonders that the ground can still feel so solid, so real.

"Emperor Joker," the Joker corrects. He kneels down, arms braced against his knees, to look Batman in the face, and the knowingness of his expression isn't feigned; it tangles its way through Batman's skull. There is no lower he can get—pride, secrets, they have all been stripped away. There is no other law or truth to compare himself to and find wanting. He can give up.

"You heard me," Bruce says, numbly.

"Of course I heard you, darling! I hear everything," the Joker says, making a grand sweeping gesture around them, pulling light behind him as he goes. The sun rises in a minute, and Bruce stares at the swirling sight, a familiar face winking its way up in its depths.

Bruce is quiet, until finally the Joker sighs. "Listen, I'd love to stay and chat but… I do have a rather important job to do," he says, making to get up.

"No! …Please," Bruce begs.

"Well, if you have something to ask, get on with it!" Joker snaps. "I haven't got all day." The sun tilts, swerves, and dives its way back toward the ground.

"I… I can't…" Bruce says, reaching out toward the Joker's form, frustrated tears coming to his eyes. The sun halts in its path, and Joker leans down again.

"Need a little help?" he asks quietly.

Bruce nods.

The Joker reaches out, and brushes a finger across his forehead, down the edge of his face, as though he's painting an image out of nothing. And then the faculty for words comes back from where it has been hidden, crowded away by pain and fear. Bruce feels calmer, more able to reason, more himself. It's a fragile fix, existing only at the Joker's whim; but as long as he wills it, Bruce will be okay. The sun wobbles its way back into the sky, reaching towards noon.

"Joker," Bruce says again.

"Yes? This had better be good," Joker says, but the snappishness of his words is belied by the unexpected gentleness of his tone.

"Aren't there more amusing things to do with me than rip me to pieces again and again?"

"I'm not sure about that," Joker says. "I'm finding it quite the killer, myself!" he says, and laughs at his own joke. The trees open their mouths and laugh too, with the same voice.

"All right," Bruce says. "But I know you, Joker. And you've always been unpredictable, capable of more than anyone thought."

"Well, duh," Joker said. "How else did I become God?"

"So remember who you are," Bruce entreats. "Who I am. We've always been great. You've said so yourself."

"Not now!" Joker says, folding his arms in annoyance. "I'm not the villain anymore, you have no place in my world!"

"Really?" Bruce asks. "There's nothing you can think of? Nothing you want from me? Because you can have it. Anything."

Joker looks at him sidelong, and his mouth pulls down into a frown. "I know that," he says peevishly. "But…"

Bruce stares at him.

"But it's not the same!" Joker bursts out, at last. "When I can make anything that I want, when anything I please will happen, what's the fun in taking anything from you?"

"Then don't take anything," Bruce says. "Give something to me. Give me my will; my freedom. We can start a new game. Whatever you want, you'll have to convince me."

"I've already won that game," Joker says, dismissively. "I have you begging at my feet, don't I?"

"Humor me."

"Fine. Go ahead—do whatever you want. I won't change your mind, though I _might_ change anything else."

Bruce stands up. He doesn't feel any different—he can't even be sure the Joker is telling the truth; all he knows is that no mortal mind was made to encompass eternity, not even the Joker's; and it must be wearing on him. Novelty in any form, that which Joker has always prized, is now foreign to him, in a world that never deviates from what the Joker can imagine.

It's a crazy game, but Batman's played crazier. He meets Joker's eyes, meets his smile with a small one of his own, and holds out an arm for the Joker to take.

.

.

.


End file.
